by Celia Imrie
‘Good mother? If you really mean that, then ignore the selfish little bastards. Forget about them for a bit and concentrate on yourself. Look at you. You’re quite the frump now. No longer the glam TV star of yesteryear.’
Sally was so astonished she was lost for words.
Zoe steamed on.
‘Good mothers, Sally, let their children go. Look at lions.’
‘But I’m not a—’
‘Your children will like you ever so much more if you pay them no attention. Really. Start enjoying your life and then they might be persuaded that it would be fun to visit you here. If I was your child I couldn’t be bothered to come. The very thought would give me claustrophobia. Too much pressure. Ugh.’
‘But Zoe, I really—’
‘As young people say, Sally: get a life.’
‘Zoe, why are you being like this? I just told you that I was going to start concentrating on something else, didn’t I? Evening classes.’
Zoe threw up her arms in despair. ‘Evening classes! Evening classes? Since when did taking evening classes constitute having a life? You need to live a little, girl. Get out of your comfort zone. There are some wonderful discos in town. Dance the night away. Meet some interesting people.’
‘Bellevue-Sur-Mer is crammed with interesting people.’
‘Bah!’ exclaimed Zoe. ‘You need to let your knickers down a little, dear.’
‘What I do with my knickers is none of your business . . .’ Sally stopped when she saw that Faith and her son Alfie, the two who had been at the house viewing yesterday morning, were standing only a few feet away, staring. They had come out of the tiny tabac, holding a small map of the town while deciding which way to go.
‘We’re looking for the Hôtel Astral,’ said Faith, blushing.
‘Astra,’ corrected Zoe. ‘The Hôtel Astra. You need to go up the way and along a little alley. Bougainvillea all the way. It’s heavenly.’
‘Oh good.’ Faith smiled. ‘As it’s so cheap I was fearful that it might be rather rough.’
‘It is rather rough,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s the path leading to it which is heavenly. The Hôtel Astra is a dump.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Sally.
‘Oh, dear. This is my son.’ Faith winced. ‘Alfie, well, he thinks it’s a good idea for me to stay here, on site as it were, till I settle in. Our bid was accepted, by the way.’
Sally swallowed. Another chance gone.
‘And, anyway, we’ve just booked a room there for two months.’
‘No probs, Mum. If the place is a dive full of marauding sailors and tattooed prostitutes we’ll soon find you somewhere else, minus the low-life, and more suitable to a lady of your age and tastes.’
‘Who said anything about low-life?’ said Zoe. ‘Low-life would be terribly exciting and would certainly be preferable to the actual clientele of the Hotel Astra, which consists in the main part of Australian rucksackers and British obese, illiterate lobsters sporting dayglo shorts.’
‘Gap-year kids and package tourists, mainly,’ said Sally, wondering why she felt obliged to apologise for the hotel. ‘It is all pretty basic.’ She hesitated before going on, afraid that Zoe might start up again.
‘Everywhere else seems to be full,’ said Alfie.
Sally had an idea. ‘I have a spare room in my place,’ she said. ‘You could pay me less than you’d pay the Astra. It would give me a little pin money.’
‘No doubt to spend on lessons in astronomy and motorcycle maintenance.’ Zoe gave a little wave to no one in particular and walked on. ‘Good luck to the lot of you.’
‘Don’t worry about Zoe,’ Sally whispered. ‘She’s a little eccentric.’
‘Heard that,’ shouted Zoe without turning round, as she beetled up the hill, round a corner and out of sight.
Sally went with Faith and Alfie to see the only available room at the Astra. It was a dark poky space with a tiny window looking out on a wall. It had a shabby rug on the scratched wooden floor and was not easily reached, necessitating a hefty climb up a complex set of irregular stairs. Sally asked the manager if that was the best he could do, and he explained that there was a much nicer double room but it had been booked a month ago by a local person on behalf of a young lady who had been already installed, though she might be leaving in a day or so. But the room was reserved for her with a retainer on a short notice basis.
‘In other words,’ snapped Sally, ‘it’s already taken. Why not just say so?’
Sally took them up the road to her house.
There it was agreed all round that, rather than pay to take the dingy box room at the Hôtel Astra, Faith would spend the waiting weeks in Sally’s better spare room, the one she kept pristine at all times in hopes of a visit from Marianne.
‘Let me give you a deposit,’ said Alfie, pulling out his wallet as he flopped down on the bed.
‘It’s all right, I’ll do it.’ Faith took a while to get her purse out of her bag, but she handed Sally the money. ‘Here. This is what I would have paid the hotel for the whole stay. You must have it.’
‘But I couldn’t . . .’
‘Please,’ said Faith. ‘It will make me feel better knowing it’s all settled.’
‘If you insist. Look, you make yourself at home, while I go downstairs and rustle up a cup of tea. Would that be nice?’
‘Lovely,’ said Faith.
‘Strong please,’ said Alfie, ‘with one sugar and a tiny bit of milk.’
‘He’s very particular,’ said Faith. ‘Alfie likes things just so.’
As she pulled open the tea caddy Sally felt elated. Still clutching the wad of euros she picked up the phone and dialled one of the numbers she had written down from the cards on the noticeboard, the class that earlier this morning she thought would be way beyond her means.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’d like to sign up for the power-boating course.’
9
Theresa was totally panicked at having been thrown into this cookery class idea of Carol’s, though it would certainly be one way of raising the money for a new boiler.
Wrapping her new turquoise mac tightly around her she opened the front door, and peered out, scanning the road for hysterical blondes on the rampage. When she saw that the coast was clear she furtively darted up the street in the direction of the main town and the railway station.
She only had a few minutes’ wait on the graffiti-smeared platform before a train pulled in for the ten-minute journey into Nice. Her plan was to find a bookshop and buy a few recipe books to pore over, and also to get a basketful of goodies from the vegetable market.
In the central part of town she bought a shopping trolley. After a quick browse through a second-hand bookshop she found some interesting-looking old recipe books, and by the time she reached the market she was just in time to catch the last of the stallholders packing up before the market space was taken over by the bars and cafes for the afternoon. Somehow Theresa just managed to buy some great cheeses, a bag of olives and a random selection of vegetables.
Exhausted but inspired, Theresa flopped down at a sunny terrace table and ordered a coffee. The waitress was rather snippy with her as the tables were already being laid up for luncheon. Theresa had forgotten how strictly the French took their ritual of mealtimes. Luckily the girl relented – for the moment.
As she relaxed in the warm rays of the sun Theresa’s phone rang. It was Imogen. She picked up.
‘So how’s it going in Fantasy Land?’
‘You mean Bellevue-Sur-Mer.’
‘Wherever . . .’ Imogen gave the usual world-weary sigh. ‘I thought you were moving to Nice?’
‘Well, it’s not quite Nice, Imogen, but very near. I’m in Nice now.’
Theresa told her daughter that it was lovely and suggested that she should come out at half term to see for herself, and bring the children.
‘How will I have the time for that, Mother? It’s all right for you. You live in a daydream. I’m in the rea
l world and I have obligations.’
Theresa couldn’t help but wonder what these obligations consisted of, as Imogen didn’t go out to work and even had a cleaner. All she really had to do with her day was look after her husband and children and go to her Pilates classes.
‘Imogen, I am sitting on a sun-kissed terrace with a bag full of beautiful fruit and vegetables which cost me substantially less that it would have cost me in Wimbledon. I am a few steps away from a sparkling azure sea and surrounded by beauty wherever I look. I imagine you have the lights on inside today because of the dark and the freezing drizzle, while I am sunbathing.’
‘You’re so impractical.’ Imogen sighed. ‘Weather isn’t everything. You’ll soon get bored of sunny days.’
‘You’re right, I probably will. But I just thought that a break from England’s miserable bleak February might be nice for you. There’s a carnival in a few weeks’ time.’
‘A carnival!’ Imogen let forth another long world-weary sigh. ‘That’s fine, Mother. I’ll leave you to your rosy spectacles for another week or so. No doubt the scales will fall from your eyes. Michael says he gives it a month before you’ll be running back to us for help.’
When Theresa put the phone back into her handbag she felt furious, but even more determined to make things work. Michael! What a cheek. She thanked God she hadn’t been tempted to ask them if they would lend her the money for the boiler.
She gathered her things together and walked up through the winding alleys of the Old Town, heading for the bus stand and a bus home.
On the bus, when Theresa could tear her eyes away from the stunning views over the Bay of Angels, she took out her turquoise pen and scribbled some words on to a scrap of paper, composing an advert for her cookery classes. Maybe classes sounded too formal. A cookery club sounded more fun. She scrawled the word ‘club’.
She totted up some figures and made the decision to borrow the money from her capital, even if it did mean losing a whole year’s interest as a penalty. But at least if she did that she could get the work on the boiler done right away. If she was going to be doing lots of cooking she’d need running hot water.
If she could only make this thing work, she would recoup the money over time and, once it was paid for, have a small income.
And also, while she was putting up the signs on noticeboards and in shop windows, she could search the boards to see if anyone needed some typing done, or maybe bookkeeping. If she could get a little income from anywhere she would be fine. As the bus neared the stop she put the pen into her handbag.
She climbed out of the bus and realised she’d made a mistake not coming back home by train as the bus stop was right at the top of the town, while the railway station was only a main road away. Now she had to bump the heavy trolley down an endless set of stone steps before reaching the alleyways of the old village and home.
She slung her bag from her shoulder, balanced the trolley in front of her and took it slowly, wheeling it down one step at a time, while gripping tight to the rusty iron handrail.
Then she heard a clatter of feet coming down swiftly behind her. She clung on to the handle of the trolley and stepped aside, to get out of the way.
The feet got nearer but as they reached her, instead of passing her, someone shoved Theresa from behind, knocking her down. She tripped over the trolley’s wheels and stumbled down a few steps before landing palms down, sprawled out on a stone step. As she came to a stop, the man moved in close and wrenched her handbag out of her grasp. She could smell the cigarette smoke on his leather jacket. He shoved her handbag under his arm and then kicked her trolley, so that it tumbled down ahead of her, spilling fruit and vegetables, which bounced away, then rolled into the dark little alleyways at the bottom.
The thief followed the trolley, rushing down the rest of the steps, and disappearing out of sight into the dark warren of the old village before the trolley and its contents finally came to rest.
Theresa reached up for the rail and tried to pull herself up, but her hands were badly grazed and she was shaking. A blue throbbing lump was already swelling up on her knuckle.
She tried to yell out, but her voice came out in a weedy kitten-like mewl.
She heard the thief stop running. His steps turned into a casual stroll as he walked away, all innocence.
Theresa pulled herself into a sitting position and took a few deep breaths. Then she stood and took a tentative step, but her legs were shaking so violently she was scared that she would fall, so she sat again. She could feel the cold and damp of the stone penetrating her coat.
‘I say! Are you all right down there?’ A man’s voice from above.
Theresa twisted her head round to see a tall man in an old-fashioned navy blazer and chinos making his way down the steps.
‘I was mugged,’ said Theresa. ‘He took my handbag.’
‘You’re English too. Oh dear, look at all your shopping,’ said the man. ‘How awful. I’m Brian, by the way. Oh Lord, poor you. You stay there. Let me help.’
He walked briskly down the steps and started retrieving as much of the shopping as he could. ‘I’ll just put it all together,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll come back and get you. Don’t worry. Sit still and take some deep breaths.’
Brian helped Theresa all the way down to her flat, holding his arm out for her to clutch, wheeling her trolley with his other hand.
‘You should make yourself a stiff drink,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a shock. Do you have any whisky or brandy?’
At the front door, Theresa realised her keys were in her stolen handbag.
‘I can’t get in. He’s got my keys.’
‘Oh, good Lord,’ said Brian. ‘That’s unlucky. I wonder what’s French for a locksmith?’
‘I was due to have it done, anyway,’ explained Theresa. ‘I’ve only just bought the place.’
‘The estate agents will know a locksmith,’ said Brian. ‘They must have to organise it all the time.’
‘I don’t have a phone!’ Theresa realised she had no wallet, no credit cards and no way of paying. ‘He’s taken the lot.’
‘Let me sort it out,’ Brian pulled his own phone out of his blazer pocket. ‘I was only going round a house with the gentleman myself this morning.’ He cupped his hand round the phone and pointed down. ‘Oh, by the way, your leg is bleeding.’
Theresa looked down to see that her tights were ripped and torn, with dirty black patches, and blood was oozing through a hole at the knee.
She sat on the small wall surrounding her front yard and burst into sobs.
Talking on the phone Brian walked out to the street, phone on one ear, his hand covering the other. He talked for a while then came back smiling.
‘It’s lunchtime. But I did manage to speak to a very nice girl, who is going to get a locksmith down here as quickly as possible. She says that you must talk to the bank, and they can arrange for you to get cash. I’m hoping you didn’t have your passport in the bag?’
Theresa was numb with it all. She didn’t move. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Do you have a friend, whose place you could go to?’
Theresa shook her head. ‘I’m new here.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Brian. ‘Like me. Look, borrow my phone. I’ll pop back for it in an hour or so. I have a few things I need to do. Will you be all right if I leave you?’
‘Thank you so much.’ Theresa’s voice came out this time in a feeble reedy croak. ‘You’re very kind.’
She spent ten minutes on the phone to the bank, who told her she must first report the robbery to the police, and then come into the bank, which was in Nice, near the Promenade du Paillon.
She then tackled the call to the police.
They too needed her to come in person to report the theft.
Theresa realised that the only thing she could do, for now, was sit and wait for the locksmith. Then after she’d got inside and washed up she would tackle the rest.
She pulled an apple fr
om her trolley and took a bite.
10
Sally had an idea. She phoned Ted to put it to him, but Sian answered.
‘You’re not after his body, too, are you?’ she joked. ‘What did you want him for?’
‘Well . . .’ Sally was at a loss. She actually wanted to persuade Ted to join her taking one of the classes, but knew she could only do that kind of thing to Ted himself. ‘As you were in town, I was phoning to ask you both to lunch today.’
Sian accepted. ‘Ted can’t come though. He’s in the doghouse, with me,’ she said. ‘So, while I had a meeting, I’ve sent him off on a nasty chore. He’s taking the car up to some nearby hilltop village for the annual service. I doubt he’ll get back before coffee.’
A couple of minutes after Sally put down the phone, the doorbell rang. She couldn’t imagine Sian could have got up the hill so fast.
She opened up, expecting to see the postman standing there with a parcel, but it was her daughter Marianne, leaning against the side of a limousine with its engine running.
‘Hi Mama! I told you I would whizz by. Can only manage a hello–goodbye cos I have to be at the airport in twenty minutes.’
‘But darling, surely you can come in for a coffee or something?’
‘Absolutely not. But I knew you’d be furious if I was passing so near and didn’t say hello.’
‘But where . . . what . . . ?’
‘Business along the coast. Just a whistle stop. I’m off to Rome now. Can’t be late for the flight.’
Sian appeared, waving at Sally from along the street.
Marianne formed her hand into the shape of a mobile phone. ‘I’ll phone you.’
She climbed back into the car. The car sped off.
‘My daughter,’ said Sally, crushed but putting on a brave face. ‘She’s in business too, as I told you.’
‘Nice,’ said Sian, watching the car disappear along the twisty uphill road.
‘It’s a work thing,’ replied Sally. ‘She’s a high flier.’
‘So I see,’ said Sian.
Half an hour later the two women managed to change the subject and Sian sprawled on a chair at Sally’s dining table, safe in Ted’s absence, talking about him. She also had much to say about the new inhabitant of the flat on the seafront, which Sally had coveted. The new woman had, it seemed, seduced Ted.
